


i'll let you choose

by missbolton



Category: All For The Game - Nora Sakavic
Genre: Anal Fingering, Blow Jobs, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, andrew trusting neil is my kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-17 00:21:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13647486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbolton/pseuds/missbolton
Summary: Years spent tentative leads to now. Now, when Andrew can lie underneath Neil, semi-naked and full of trust."I want you to do what you want."





	i'll let you choose

**Author's Note:**

> idk whether i got characterization right but ,,, i love my sons and just had to write something for them! (even tho they deserve better than this lbr)

"What do you want me to do?"

Shivers run down Andrew's spine. Those words. Just those words. It's enough for spikes of arousal to shoot through his body, every single nerve ignited and burning. It is times like these he is thankful for his eidetic memory; he will never forget the way Neil looks right now, staring up at him through eyelashes with sharp blue eyes. He hates it.

He hates _him._  Hates how he looks, pupils blown wide and lips kiss-swollen. Hates how he sounds, voice soft and low, as that question hangs in the air above them.

Andrew’s skin tingles, especially those precise spots where Neil's fingers are pressed, where they haven't moved from and won't move from unless he says. Arousal coupled with a sudden burst of affection pool in his chest, and he forces it away, choosing instead to focus all of his energy on one task: thinking.

What _does_ he want Neil to do?

It has taken a long time for him to trust himself, to trust Neil, to do things like this. Before, it has been careful touches underneath the covers, most of Neil's attention focused on pressing kisses to the skin on Andrew's neck. It was, on good days, Neil being on his knees and Andrew tugging desperately at his hair, never letting any noises escape from his lips, only one hitch in his breathing when he reached his release. It didn't matter what happened. It was Neil, which was the important part. Neil Josten and his smart mouth and red hair and blue eyes, gently touching him, caressing his skin like it is the finest thing he has ever seen. Whilst Neil brings him to the edge with enthusiastic hands and fingers, each move is filled with unspoken affection. Each flick of his tongue over Andrew is an "i love you" and each soft moan is "i never want this to end" and every single kiss is a huge tangle on emotions. Complex, suffocating emotions which can't possibly be put into words.

Slowly, they have reached this. Andrew has been rid of his trousers and is lying down, propped up on his elbows. Neil hovers over his cock, which is standing to attention. This is giving Neil some type of control. The position is vulnerable, and usually Andrew is never on his back, always poised above Neil.

Years spent being tentative have led to now. Now is when Andrew trusts him enough to lie down semi-naked underneath him. Now is when Neil is looking at him with big, wide eyes, that question lingering on his lips. Now is when Andrew decides, fuelled by the sight of startling blue and sharp cheekbones, that he wants this. He wants him.

Trusts him.

Leaping head first into the void, Andrew makes a decision.

"I want you to do what you want."

Eyes widen.

"You tell me first," he adds, because there are some limits which will be in place forever, and they both know this. "And you ask before. Yes or no?"

Neil takes a second, before managing a weak, "Yes." He looks positively thrilled, a grin curling at the corners of his lips, his attempt at holding it back already wearing thin.

This is unexplored territory. Most new things are rare now. Everything else they do is comfortable, just another try at something already braved. Whereas most couples would spontaneously act in the heat of the moment, Andrew and Neil always have a set plan. One will ask; the other will respond. Being plagued with years of torment when it comes to intimacy makes it difficult for Andrew to simply _give_ his consent without thoroughly thinking it over first.

When Neil had first got him off, it had been asked weeks before. The first time they fucked had been brought up on multiple occasions, and finally happened a month or so afterwards. It's not as simple as a yes or a no. Not really.

Yet the words carry so much meaning. Neil breathes a 'yes' like it's a prayer, recites the holy words with his lips against skin. Andrew says a 'yes' with absolute trust, and within that one, hard syllable is his absolute heart and soul.

"Okay, then." Neil clears his throat and looks, plainly admiring sculpted thigh muscles beneath him, whilst mulling over possibilities. "I, uh ... want to blow you. Yes or no?"

It takes barely a second for Andrew to consider. The delirious feeling of Neil’s mouth is one he will only pass up on bad days. "Yes."

He certainly takes his time. The anticipation crackling through his body fades by the time Neil is ready, kneeling with his head between Andrew's slightly raised thighs. A tongue trails a path up the inside of his knee, to his inner thigh, gently tugging at the skin. Not enough to leave a mark, even though if Neil had asked to leave marks there, Andrew knows his answer would be a firm ‘yes’.

He goes to make a comment, something sarcastic about hurrying up, but never gets round to it. The second that familiar heat sinks down onto him, he forgets himself. Andrew grips on to whatever he can to refrain from making noises and tries to blink back reality, as the world around him seems blurry, centered around the wet, warm mouth slowly inching down his cock. This is dangerous - he is focusing on one thing and one thing only. Anything could happen right now, and Andrew would be to blame because his mind is so intently focused on Neil's perfect mouth, Neil's perfect tongue, Neil and his ~~perfect~~ stupid face.

Something similar to an ‘ah’ rises from his throat when Neil pulls back, lips tight. The first time they had done this, there was a definite lack of finesse on Neil’s part. He made up for it with enthusiasm, but now, after months and months of practice of this particular activity, he can work his mouth expertly, take him down just far enough, even out his breathing so he won’t choke. Andrew risks a glance down, to check if Neil had heard his involuntary noise. He then regrets looking at him. Lips stretched wide, eyes fluttering shut every now and again, cheeks hollowed …

Andrew has to rip his eyes away before he comes far too soon.

"Neil," he says, his voice coming out mostly even, just a little bit strained. It's the most he can do, the most he can say. Unspoken words intertwine with his name - _that feels amazing, you're so gorgeous, don't stop_ \- and he doesn't have to say anything else. Judging by the content moan Neil lets out, he has understood, and wraps his hand around whatever his mouth can’t reach.

A rhythm is established. Andrew finally manages to think clearly, coherent thoughts wheedling back into his brain, and lets himself be brought comfortably to climax. It’s just as his hands loosen their painfully tight grip in Neil’s hair when a practiced tongue finds a sensitive spot, lapping at the tip, tentative yet determined. Although he wants to let out all sorts of noises, moans and groans and whimpers, Andrew instead throws his head back and lets his jaw fall open. He knows Neil is studying him for a reaction - those eyes are heavy - and is determined not to give him one.

With a spare hand, he reaches for Neils, finding his fingers and gripping them. They squeeze back. And then, just as the beginnings of an orgasm begin to creep up, Neil pulls of him with a wet noise, leaving his erection exposed and slick with saliva.

It is times like these when he feels very odd explosions of emotion. Looking down pulls out all sorts of feelings. Neil's eyes are hooded and shining. Andrew desperately wants his lips back around the circumference of him, and he craves the jolts of pleasure which shoot through his body. He doesn’t say anything, though. Just lowers his legs, which had been bent and raised to his hips, shooting Neil a look. It’s not intended to be soft. But judging by Neil’s curving smile it had come out like that. That’s the stupid, sappy looks he adopts whenever Andrew accidentally lets too much affection slip.

Andrew just waits. It’s obvious Neil is running over another idea. His eyes are misty and deep. Whatever it is, it takes a painfully long time for Neil to say it, and Andrew itches the reach down and finish himself off. It wouldn’t take much, not whilst he's worked up, and with Neil looking like that ...

“Can I finger you?” eventually spills from Neil’s lips. It is said so softly, so cautiously, that it nearly goes unheard.

Wrestling with his mind, Andrew props himself up on his elbows and looks down. Neil looks half-hopeful, half-mindful. A brief flash of a scene plays in Andrew’s head - sharp eyes gleaming up at him, watching intently for signs of discomfort, whilst fingers ever so softly push into him. It would feel good. But there’s always the risk of caustic memories surfacing, shattering _this_ feeling, replacing the aching affection with piercing trauma. That’s a risk that he’s never been willing to take before - once his mind makes a connection between Neil and his past, this could be ruined. Gone. And, as much as Andrew hates him, there is no way that living his life without him is even a fucking choice. Spending more than two weeks apart is enough for them both to feel empty and alone. A lifetime isn’t an option.

But if there’s one thing he’s learned with Neil, it’s that he is different. Different in the way he looks, acts, speaks, feels, _lives._ Whenever Andrew looks at him, there’s something warm which tugs at his heartstrings. Something so overpowering that he feels his whole world shift, warping to fit around Neil Josten.

“Andrew?” Neil asks, snapping him back to reality. He says his name like a secret, something which he never wants to share. “If you don’t want it, that’s fine. I can go back to what I was doing, or we don’t even have to -”

“I want to.” He is not just saying that to stop Neil babbling on for years, as he knows he can. The mere idea is causing his stomach to flutter and his breathing to become increasingly laboured. 

Neil goes still for a few moment, eyes flashing with thousands of unspoken words. He settles on, “Say it.”

Andrew shoots him a glower, but it’s not as venomous as intended. He’s inwardly thankful for those words. “I want you to finger me."

Nodding frantically, Neil reaches for the bedside table. It’s usually the other way around, with Andrew warming lube between his fingers, Neil with his legs spread so intimately. With this role reversal comes unfortunate apprehension, only eased slightly by the childish excitement softening Neil’s eyes.

“Can you put some pillows, like … under your hips?” Neil asks, eyebrows furrowing as he figures out the best possible position. He’s taken on the same look as he does when figuring out the best Exy strategies, the look which Andrew ~~loves~~ hates. He does as asked, propping himself up with several pillows, so it’s easier.  “I, um …I’ve never ... done this. To anybody else.”

“You’ve done it to yourself?” Andrew asks, hating himself for shuddering at the thought. The idea of Neil with his legs set wide, fingers effortlessly sliding in and out  of himself whilst his head is thrown back in a long, drawn-out moan is certainly not unappealing. A shudder flies through his body, going straight to his cock. Next time he's alone and hard, when those horrible periods come around when either of them has to leave, that will be what he thinks of.

“A few times. Wasn’t that fun.” He shrugs. “It’s only fun when you’re there.”

"Shut up."

“Are you ready?”

“Yeah.”

He awaits the feeling. Neil pushes his index finger ever so slowly past the ring of muscle, barely going past the tip before pulling out again. The second time he does it, a little deeper again, Andrew feels himself tense up.

Pressing a chaste kiss to the inside of Andrew’s knee, Neil waits for him to relax. Andrew reaches for the hand not pushing into him, finding comfort in the shape of the scars on Neil’s fingers, intertwining them and squeezing. He squeezes hard. To ground himself. Squeezes hard to remind himself that the person kneeling above him is one he trusts. He never shuts his eyes, keeping them trained on the bumps and dips of Neil’s face - the burn scar, the line of his cheekbones, the concentrated crease between his eyebrows.

When the finger goes knuckle deep, he bites down on his lip. It doesn’t hurt, but isn’t necessarily igniting pleasure intense enough for him to be writhing and moaning, not like Neil does when he is fingered.

Everything slows to a stop. Andrew pulls his eyebrows together, wordlessly asking Neil why he stopped, and is greeted with another push. Deeper. There is no stinging, no burning, nothing similar to what he’s been used to before.

He senses the question before it comes, and answers it with a short, “Still a yes.”

Neil huffs out a chuckle, but it quickly dies down, pulling his finger out and then pushing back in. He does it three more times, each time growing faster, but still remaining cautious. Their hands are still intertwined and gripping hard. The hold falters for a very brief second when something happens - a flash, something powerful and quick rushing through his body - before it vanishes and his hand tightens again. Neil’s eyes flash and he sets about trying to get it to happen again, but there's nothing. Disappointment doesn’t linger; Neil pushes in a second finger, generously coated in lube, straight up to the knuckle. There’s a faint burn. Very faint. He grits his teeth and chases away any intrusive thoughts.

This is Neil. _His_ Neil. The runaway who is littered with scars, the kid with a smart mouth who can never stay out of trouble, the stupid, smiling idiot who eats ice cream with Andrew at four in the morning if he is forced out of sleep by old demons.

Then, Neil curls his fingers, and Andrew can’t hold back his sharp gasp. Eyes desperately search for any sign of discomfort, any signs of pain, but there is nothing. Andrew couldn’t look in pain if he tried. He battles the flush creeping up his cheeks, because then Neil will get all smug and proud, and consequently ~~adorable~~ annoying.

The action is repeated. Pleasure jerks through him, causing his legs to quiver where they are raised. Fuck. _Fuck_. He tries to growl out something about hating Neil, but all that comes out is a choked off groan. Andrew tightens his grip. Surely, it must be cutting off Neil's blood circulation by now.

“Does that feel good?”

God, his voice. It’s low. Gravelly. It sends heat spiralling through Andrew, and he feels so overwhelmed that his other hand flies to fist in the sheets, just to make sure he will stay on the bed and won’t start floating or some shit.

“Shut up," he says for a second time,  _wishing_ Neil would take that advice.

And Andrew is content in the knowledge that he has never, ever whimpered before. He’s made other sounds - groans and growls and low moans, when he is lost in a haze of desire.

Neil moves his fingers up a little, then curls them _just right_ , and Andrew can’t think to do anything else as he's struck by the lightning strike of pleasure. It sings in his veins. The noise which slips from his lips is far too desperate, and Neil’s pupils blow so wide that it nearly overtakes the blue iris.

“Woah,” he breathes.

“Neil,” Andrew manages raggedly, and it’s a miracle he can talk at all. His entire body aches with the effort of trembling. But he still chases that feeling, this newfound weakening spot inside of him, by pushing ever so slightly down onto the fingers. There's nothing else for him to add except another croak of, _"Neil_."

“There?” He’s not teasing. He’s curious, searching for the best option to make Andrew feel good, and that alone sends him intensely closer to the edge. His cock hasn’t been touched for a while, but is standing to full attention, red and throbbing.

“I hate you,” he mumbles. Neil pushes again, then twice, then on the fifth pump of his hand has Andrew groaning and swearing and gripping on for dear life. If his nails weren't blunt and bitten down, there would be scratches on Neil's skin. “ _Fuck. Neil_."

He’s not usually vocal. Words seem pointless most times. Maybe that is why Neil looks so fucking pleased with himself, a smile dancing on his lips. There’s nothing Andrew ever wants or needs to say, and it’s always a dangerous game to play, letting his mouth run whilst pleasure overtakes him. Anything could escape.

The last shred of control leaves him when Neil ducks down, still slowly pushing his fingers in deep, and takes Andrew in his mouth. The hot slide of a tongue against his cock and the sparks which jolt through his body are enough to send him over the edge. This edge is steeper than usual, and he tumbles through his orgasm whilst gripping desperately onto Neil’s hand.

He hates him even more. Hates the way his gently removes his fingers and the pillows, settling beside Andrew, who is drained, boneless and trying to collect himself. Hates the way he chuckles weakly. Hates the way Neil smiles at him, toothily and happily, like he’s just been told he’s won the lottery.

Once the buzz of Andrew’s climax finally evaporates, he notices that the pooling affection hasn’t. It is still there. It is heavy on his heart, slowing every beat down, poisoning his blood with this suffocating feeling. Each pump drives it deeper into him. Soon, it will be brimming, overflowing, and his heart will just stop. All of these feelings are too much and his body will give up, and it will be all Josten’s fault.   

Andrew, despite the thoughts whirring around his brain, just says, “Yes or no?”

“Yes,” is Neil’s instant reply. Andrew presses their mouths together roughly, kissing away the smile which is slowly inching onto Neil’s mouth. He tastes himself on the tongue sliding against him, and shudders when he realises that Neil swallowed it all. He can't get hard again, but if he could, that would do it. Briefly, he pulls back, mumbling, “245 percent,” but the loss of contact does not last long.

Andrew kisses Neil until they are spent and sagging underneath their exhaustion. When sleep finally pulls them under, Andrew reaches out and presses his knee against the back of Neil's thigh, another unspoken gesture. The contact screams hundreds of things. _I'm happy you're here; I love you; don't ever leave._

 


End file.
